fighting the good fight

After 248 years or so, it was bound to happen—I finally got a pair of reading glasses.

I’ve been doing a pretty good job of denying the inevitable for the past year or two—squinting, cranking up light sources, holding books and magazine about three feet away—but considering presbyopia affects over 95 percent of the people over 45, I was CLEARLY WAAAYYYY* overdue.

[*might be a slight overcompensation]

But yeah, after enjoying 20/20 vision for my entire life, it was time. For the past few weeks, I’ve been pretty busy at work, and with all the heavy reading, I could really feel the strain on my peepers—I was getting headaches and my eyes were actually twitching, which isn’t good, right? Don’t need to be an ophthalmologist (or play one on TV) to see what’s going on, so to speak.

So I did a few eye tests, figured out what power of magnification I needed (*only* 1.5) and headed over to CVS to get a pair. I found a pair that I like (actually, the first pair I tried on, although I did try others), and tested them out by reading the fine print on the aspirin bottles in the next aisle. (Apparently, you’re not supposed to wash pain-relief medication down with shots of tequila—who knew?) To not make it so obvious, I grabbed a few other things—dental floss, Breathsavers, Citrucel (oops, put that one back)—and headed to the front of the store.

The jaded teenager manning the cash register was wearing glasses, so I didn’t have to endure any raised eyebrows or snarky comments that would’ve added to my already heightened self-consciousness. Fortunately, I got plenty of those when I got home, courtesy of my own jaded teenager (who has 20/20 vision—bastard!) and a few of my “friends” like my ex-buddy Steve who sent me a few “helpful” suggestions like a big-button phone. Oh. so. funny.

Anyway, although I’m still getting used to wearing them, it’s been nice to be able to read again without all the effort. So there’s that.

But why did I wait so long? Obviously, vanity and pride played a big part, as like everyone else on the planet, I’m loathe to admit that I’m getting older and am going to eventually drop dead.

All right, just because I’m finally growing into my curmudgeon’s skin, it doesn’t mean that I have to fully embrace the archetype. Yet.

With all due respect to my *older* friends and family, here are a few of my rules to help me avoid fully falling into the inevitable … you know, because if I fall too hard into it, I can break my hip.

• No spare change in my pockets. Because there’s some weird compulsion that we all have to start jingling it, and nothing’s quite as unintentionally creepy than an elderly guy with his hand vigorously working the inside of his pants pocket.

• No “Matlock,” “Murder, She Wrote,” “Golden Girls” or “Antiques Roadshow.” That also goes for “NCIS,” which seems to continually dominate the ratings in the 65+ demographic. (Normally, I’d put “Betty White’s Off Their Rockers” on here, but … uh … the kids like it.)

• No ribbon or hard candy in the house. Only fresh chocolate, thanks. One of my grandmothers kept ribbon candy in the house as a treat for us, and it really was not anything that any self-respecting child would want.

• No suspenders. Unless you’re a fireman, fisherman, lumberjack, Santa Claus, Fred “Rerun” Barry or Robin Williams in the 1970s or a guy who feels comfortable enough to jauntily stuff a handkerchief in your back pocket and call your ensemble “complete,” no one should be wearing them.

The corollary to all this is keep my belt looser and my pants closer my waist than my chest.

• Speaking of—no handkerchiefs. Snot rags from a bygone day—we have Puffs Plus with lotion now, and they are all anyone needs to properly dispose of their extraneous bodily fluids and secretions.

• No “dagnabbit,” “tarnation” or “by cracky” in my daily vernacular. “You damn punk kids, get off my lawn!” however, is still in play.

• No lanyards to hold the new glasses around my neck. I may be old, but until I get a sensible perm, a purple pantsuit and a gig as a librarian, that is not a look I can embrace, now or ever.

• No complaining about age-related ailments such as rheumatism, arthritis or my lumbago. As my gastrointestinal issues have long provided much amusement, I’ll keep whinging about them. I will also refrain from going on about how doctors nowadays all want to use new-fangled technology like fire and leeches to fix me.

• Always have a sensible haircut. Because nothing is quite as sad as a gray mullet or ponytail on an old, balding dude.

• No “puttering” in the garden. I cut the grass and work in the yard. Period.

• No knickknacks, tchotchkes, framed needlepoint or other cutesy home-decorating items. I’ve always prided myself on avoiding a house full of doilies or potpourri or crap, so I’m not going the dust-collecting decor route now.

• No Early Bird specials. I can still pay full price for my meals and prefer to eat my supper in the evening, by craccc …. kers. Crackers. You know. For soup.

Normally, I’d throw something in here about being early for everything, but I’ve been hardwired like that since birth, so that’s no sign of anything other than consistency.

• Stay up until at least past 10 p.m. Granted, this is getting tougher to do, but I’m giving it the good fight. As they say, there’ll be plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead …

…. and I’m not quite there. Yet.